


Goodnight, Princess

by Mikshizels



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Drinking, High Chaos (Dishonored), One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-04 00:21:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4119814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mikshizels/pseuds/Mikshizels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knew he was tired. A sense of hollow drowsiness, one in which he was more tired than he’d ever been yet incapable of sleep, overtook him every night, and flashing red and white nightmares coursed through his mind every time he slipped from consciousness, throwing him back into the god-forsaken world of the living. He’d bolt up in his bed, breath heavy as he gazed around his pitch-black room. He could still hear her screams, little Emily’s horrible screams of terror as she plummeted from the lighthouse.</p>
<p>Another drink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goodnight, Princess

**Author's Note:**

> My first work on Ao3 and it's a warm-up for another fic...

Corvo stared down at his old, worn leather boots. Blood and dirt caked over them, a soft yellow glow given off by the flickering lantern on his desk cast over them. Bitterness sank deep in his stomach as he took a long swig of whiskey. The heated, tar flavored drink coated his throat, taking him one step closer to an off-balanced world and an inevitable slumber.

  


If only he didn’t need to drink himself to sleep every damned night.

  


He knew he was tired. A sense of hollow drowsiness, one in which he was more tired than he’d ever been yet incapable of sleep, overtook him every night, and flashing red and white nightmares coursed through his mind every time he slipped from consciousness, throwing him back into the god-forsaken world of the living. He’d bolt up in his bed, breath heavy as he gazed around his pitch-black room. He could still hear her screams, little Emily’s horrible screams of terror as she plummeted from the lighthouse.

  


Another drink.

  


Corvo wiped his mouth with the back of his right hand. Dark brown eyes slowly lifted up to the wall of the dingy inn room he’d been staying in, and his gaze fell upon numerous colorful drawings, all works of Emily. Oh, how his chest ached when he studied the pictures, visually tracing every red, black, green, blue wax stroke the young girl would use. It was strange, how he was not the type of man to find small details in art to be able to describe an art style, but with this ten-year-old girl, he managed to piece together a few adjectives to grace the young artist’s work.

  


_Smooth… Fair, elaborate…_

_  
_

With a small drink of whiskey, he mulled over the paths her art could go. Detailed paintings of gardens, red flowers adorning every bush, just as she’d drawn him with a red-soaked blade in his hand. When he imagined Emily, his dear little Emily, with her hair shoulder-length at age sixteen pulled back in a loose pony tail and a paint brush in her hand, colors splattered on her apron and hands, he felt a twinge of pain in his abdomen. He knew she’d never live to grow into the remarkable woman he knew she’d become, never further her skills in drawing or painting. Her loud, gleeful laughter would never liven the halls of the now grim and dark life he walked through… Grunting softly at the pain, Corvo cringed and held his forearm to his stomach, leaning forward by a few inches. His grip on the whiskey bottle tightened, almost enough to break it,and he shut his eyes tightly and almost prayed for the cramp to end, for his muscles to relax. It’d been only a few days since Emily’s death, and the entire scene was still fresh in his mind, keeping his stomach turned and fiery and his chest tight. His nerves were on end, almost as if they were fraying and tangling.

  


How long would it be till he could live again? Till his mind no longer dripped with blood, till he didn’t lay awake at night and stare at the ceiling, longing for another chance to save Emily… Or slaughter every man he killed once more. Anything would be better than sitting in silence.

  


Oh, how Corvo longed for death, for relief from life without purpose. The dishonor that stripped him of his empress, his princess, his responsibilities… It sunk deep in his mind and heart, and tore him apart with every waking moment of the day and night, and slowly incinerated his will to live.

  
He let out a heavy and scratchy wet breath. Another drink of whiskey, and he mumbled lowly, “Goodnight, my Princess…” 


End file.
